The Science of Baking
by kazoquel4
Summary: John thinks Sherlock's forgotten his birthday, but he's got another thing coming. When the famed consulting detective tries to make a cake for his best friend, well... things don't go according to plan. Who knew baking a cake was this hard? ONE-SHOT. Friendship Fluff.


John Watson glanced over at his good friend Sherlock, eyes narrowed slightly. The consulting detective was sprawled out on the sofa, eyes shut, clearly in his 'mind palace'. He hadn't moved for the past hour, and it was unlikely he would move again for quite a while. John pursed his lips, going back to his blog irritably. He couldn't believe that on today of all days, Sherlock had decided to be a total prick.

It was well-known to everyone John hardly got mad at Sherlock. Yes, he got irritated and annoyed every five minutes, but he was a very forgiving man. So why was he so upset today?

Because today was his birthday, and Sherlock hadn't mentioned it. Not once.

Not that John had been expecting much- Sherlock was well known for his horrific social skills. But John had at least been hoping for a 'Happy Birthday', or maybe even a little present. It didn't even have to be a good one; he just wanted a little something to know his flat mate appreciated him.

But no, the high-functioning sociopath had spent the entire day thinking and scribbling down notes for a new case he had taken up, and had hardly spared a word for John.

All in all, not John's best birthday.

Luckily for him, though, his sister had invited him to grab a coffee with her to celebrate his birthday. He wasn't especially eager, seeing as he and Harry didn't get on very well, but thought it might be nice to catch up with her. She had promised him that she had been doing better lately, and John had decided to give her a chance. Besides, anything was better than hanging around with Sherlock right now.

"I should be going," he said into the silence, closing down his blog and logging out.

"Hmm," Sherlock murmured, not opening his eyes. His long, pale fingers were pressed together in that triangle-thing he did whenever he entered his mind palace.

John shot him a glare, slamming his laptop shut. "I'll be back around five," he said, setting it aside and getting to his feet. "No need to bother saving any dinner for me, I'm eating with Harry."

"No problem," Sherlock said, still not looking at him.

A flash of hurt crossed John's face at Sherlock's blatant dismissal. Shaking his head, he turned away and hurried out the door, grabbing his coat as he went. He didn't bother saying goodbye.

As soon as John was gone, Sherlock's eyes opened. He looked over at the closed door before leaping to his feet and striding over to the window. On the street below he could see John hailing a taxi and getting in, driving off into the mid-afternoon traffic.

A swift glance at the clock informed Sherlock he had two hours before John was due to return. He had two hours to prove to his flat mate that he had not, indeed, forgotten his birthday.

He knew John had been angry with him all day for his apparent ignorance of this important day, and hoped he hadn't hurt him too badly. For Sherlock Holmes had a plan on this very special day.

He walked into the kitchen, surveying the cluttered mess congregating on the table. Sidestepping this, he reached up for the topmost cabinet, reaching into the far back corner. His fingers closed around a box, and he pulled it out, setting it on the counter in front of him.

He stared at it. One box of vanilla cake mix, all packaged up nice and neat.

Sherlock knew he wasn't a very good cook or baker; that was one of the reasons why he hardly ate, unless he ordered take-out. But he couldn't exactly mess up packaged cake mix, could he? All he had to do was follow the instructions and he would have the best cake John had ever tasted. Then he would have to get over his anger with Sherlock.

Tearing open the box, he glanced at the directions. He absentmindedly reached out and turned on the oven, getting it preheated to 350 degrees. Then he pulled out the mixer, which had been used… once, maybe? Twice, if you counted an experiment Sherlock had performed a couple of years ago.

_Here we go,_ Sherlock thought to himself, a determined look on his face. He ripped open the package of cake mix, dipping a finger in and holding it up to his eyes to inspect it out of habit.

He frowned. Holding it close to his nose, he sniffed, eyebrows furrowed. No, this wouldn't do. It didn't smell sweet enough. Cake was supposed to be sugary, right? John had an infamous sweet tooth, and if this cake wasn't perfect, Sherlock would shoot someone.

Not literally, of course.

Dumping the mix into the mixer, Sherlock opened another cabinet, pulling out the bag of sugar John had picked up yesterday by chance. Hefting it back over to the mixer, he opened it, grabbing a spoon. _Four should do it,_ he thought, spooning the sweet stuff into the mixer.

When he deemed it sufficiently sweetened, Sherlock continued on with the rest of the recipe. Two cups of vegetable oil, a cup of water (plus another for good measure; the mix looked far too thick. Perhaps it was the extra sugar), and two eggs. He had a bit of trouble with those, and ended up cleaning the yolk off of his fingers with a wrinkled nose.

The oven beeped, signifying it was warm enough. Hurriedly mixing the ingredients together, Sherlock grabbed a glass pan he had set aside earlier that day for this very purpose. He carefully poured the batter in, watching as it seeped out to fill the concaves of the cake pan.

Sherlock frowned when he saw little lumps floating in the batter. Swiftly swiping one up with his finger, he pressed it between two fingers, realizing with dismay that they were little pieces of unmixed cake mix. He hadn't blended it enough.

He looked at the clock. Half an hour had passed; the cake would take thirty minutes to cook, longer to cool, and he needed to frost it. There was no time to fix it. With a sigh, he picked it up and slid it into the oven. It would turn out fine, if anything a bit thicker than normal.

Returning to the cabinet, Sherlock reached in and grabbed the can of chocolate frosting. He recalled a conversation with the store clerk earlier; he had informed him that the frosting thickened when slightly cooled.

"Not too much," he had warned, "but just enough for it to become a bit thicker."

He pulled open the refrigerator. Ignoring the severed hand awaiting one of his experiments on the bottom shelf, he stuck the frosting in. Shutting the door firmly, he turned around and surveyed the kitchen, feeling satisfied. Everything was going excellent so far.

Sherlock retreated to the living area, sitting down in his armchair. Leaning his head back, he shut his eyes. He had thirty minutes to spare before the cake was done, which meant thirty minutes of uninterrupted thought. Lestrade had had him running around for the past week, and although Sherlock had quite enjoyed the cases he had been assigned, it was also nice to simply sit and think for a while. Thus so, Sherlock retreated into his mind palace, prepared to sink into his mind.

Exactly thirty minutes later, Sherlock opened his eyes again. Stretching out his unused limbs, he blinked. A soft frown crossed his face. There was a strange smell to the air. Almost as if something was…

He leapt to his feet, eyes wide. Sprinting into the kitchen, he skidded to a stop in front of the oven, which was emitting the horrid smell. Yanking it open, he stumbled back as a plume of black smoke flew into his face, rolling out of the machine.

Coughing, Sherlock batted the smoke away, fumbling for a towel. Eyes squeezed shut, he reached inside the oven, grasping the hot pan with the cloth to keep his hands protected. Pulling it out, he quickly deposited it on the stove, gasping for clean air. Unable to stand it, he slammed the oven door shut, stopping the flow of black smoke.

Horrified, Sherlock examined the cake. What was supposed to be a white and fluffy pastry had been blackened around the edges, covered in scorches. He looked up at the clock, annoyance rising in him. No, he hadn't been late; thirty minutes exactly, just as the box had said. Why, then, had it burned?

Walking over to the oven to turn it off, he looked at the temperature. Seeing the numbers flashing there, he let out a long groan, feeling like an idiot. What he had thought said '350' actually was '450'. No wonder the cake had burned; he had set it a hundred degrees higher than it should have been!

A sick feeling twisting in Sherlock's stomach, he returned to his cake. He stared down at the burned pastry, glaring at it. What was he supposed to do with this?

"This is all your fault," he shot over his shoulder at the oven, irritated with it.

Maybe if he cooled it down? At this point it just had to be edible. Perhaps the refrigerator, or…

The refrigerator! Sherlock spun around, lunging for it and pulling it open. He pulled out the frosting, wrestling the lid off the can and peering inside.

Sherlock let out a moan, shutting his eyes. Could this day get any worse?

The frosting was frozen solid. Apparently, it got like that if you left it in there for half an hour. He wouldn't be able to use this.

Why, oh _why_, had he decided to bake his own cake? It would have been a lot easier just to buy one at the bakery, but _no, _he had to do it all himself.

He took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. He could fix this. He was Sherlock Holmes. All he had to do was defrost this frosting, and make sure John ate only one slice of cake. No big deal.

Sherlock opened the microwave, sticking the frosting inside. Setting it to automatic defrost, he began pacing around the kitchen, hands clenched tightly behind his back. He looked up at the clock. Forty-five minutes until John returned. Fantastic.

Five minutes later the microwave was still going. Sherlock cast a suspicious look at it. It was supposed to turn off when the item inside was defrosted; surely the frosting hadn't been this frozen? Deciding to check on it, Sherlock walked over and pulled it open, looking inside.

His jaw dropped. The frozen icing had been reduced to a melted puddle in the can, hardly thicker than a milkshake. He pulled it out, feeling the warm sides, and dipped a finger inside.

"Ouch!" he hissed, pulling it out of the burning liquid and shaking his hot finger to cool it off.

His temper flared. Glaring murderously at the microwave, Sherlock slammed the useless icing down next to the cake. Stomping over to the table, he pushed aside a pile of papers, grabbing his gun.

"Stupid microwave!" he muttered, pointing the weapon at the offending machinery. There was a loud bang and a flash of sparks, and suddenly the microwave had a gaping hole in it.

Dropping the gun back onto the table and ignoring the smoldering microwave, Sherlock hurried back over to his dismal looking pile of cake supplies. A helpless look crossed his face as he picked up the icing, examining it closely. The burned cake sat there, mocking him silently.

Thirty-five minutes until John returned. Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock held the icing over the cake, slowly pouring it over the pastry. He winced as it gathered in runny puddles, forming a gloopy mess atop the horrific pastry.

Sherlock set the empty can down. He stood in front of his ruined cake, face emotionless. There it was. The one thing he could have done for John to show him that he did appreciate him, and he had managed to mess it up. Now John would be angry with him, probably thinking he had messed it up on purpose. He was a horrible flat mate and a horrible best friend to John. He had ruined his birthday. Wonderful, kind, loyal John, stuck with Sherlock Holmes as his partner. He didn't deserve this.

Thirty minutes until John came back and saw the mess he had created. Feeling numb, Sherlock walked back into the living room, pay no attention to the microwave, which was starting to smoke. Flopping down on the couch, he curled into a ball, his back to the rest of the room. Shutting his eyes, he spent the remaining time until John returned thinking about what a horrible friend he was.

_I should just leave now, _Sherlock thought glumly. He had spent the whole day convincing John he had forgotten his birthday so he could make it up to him with an amazing cake, and now he had nothing. What good was he if he couldn't even make a simple cake? _Everyone _could make a cake.

The door clicked as the lock turned. Sherlock curled in tighter on himself, squeezing his eyes shut. There was a creak as the door opened.

"I'm back!" John called out into the silence. "Sherlock?"

The door slammed shut. John poked his head into the room, blinking when he saw Sherlock apparently sulking on the couch. "What happened to you?" he asked, pulling off his coat and hanging it on the rack.

Sherlock didn't respond, frowning at the cushion. John shot him a look, but didn't comment on the fact that he was being ignored.

"I actually had a very nice time with Harry," he went on, strolling into the room. "She seems to be pulling her life back together. She got me a lovely copy of a new book from my favorite author." He came to a stop in the middle of the room, hesitating. "I don't suppose you know why?" he asked cautiously.

Sherlock just shook his head, not facing him.

John let out an exasperated noise. "Because it's my _birthday, _Sherlock!" he exclaimed, finally cracking. "I've been dropping hints all week, and you didn't even remember! What's more is that you've been completely ignoring me all day, and have barely moved all day! What kind of flat mate are you?" he snapped, crossing his arms sharply.

Sherlock shrugged dispiritedly, seemingly unaffected by John's rant. This just infuriated the doctor more.

"And what do I smell _burning_?" he asked, sniffing the air. He shot a glare at the detective's back before turning and stomping into the kitchen. "If this is another one of your bloody _experiments, _Sherlock Holmes, I swear, I will pack right now and-"

He trailed off, staring at the counter with a confused expression. Coming closer, he took in the sight of the ruined cake, covered in melted chocolate frosting. He reached out to pick it up, holding it close and sniffing it. It was obviously burned. Realization dawning on him, he slowly turned around and walked back into the living room, holding the ruined cake.

"Sherlock, what's this?" he asked quietly, coming to a stop in front of the sulking detective.

Sherlock muttered something, the sound muffled by the cushions. His shoulders were tensed.

"Sorry, didn't catch that," John said in a louder voice, trying to get a reaction.

Sherlock flipped over to face John. He shot the cake a dark look, a frown etched deep into his face.

"_That _is my attempt to bake a cake," he said in a disgusted tone of voice. "And there's no reason to point out that it's ruined, because I already know. Trust me, I know." He crossed his arms, glaring at his feet.

John looked down at the cake and then back at Sherlock. "You tried to bake a cake?" he asked, surprised.

Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eyes. "Well, yes. I had to do _something _to commemorate your birthday, didn't I? Unfortunately, it did not turn out according to plan."

"This cake is for me?" John asked, suspicions confirmed.

Sherlock hummed in response, not looking at his flat mate.

"You… didn't forget my birthday," John said simply, his lips twitching slightly.

"Of course I didn't!" Sherlock said, sounding outraged. "How could I? You've been so obvious with your hints all week, and I know you've been angry with me all day." He swallowed thickly, a strange look crossing his face. "Sorry for ruining your birthday," he muttered, kicking at the arm of the sofa.

John couldn't help it. He started to laugh.

Seeing as that was the last reaction Sherlock expected, he looked up in surprise at his friend, who was laughing his head off, still holding the horrible cake.

"What?" asked Sherlock defensively. "What's so funny?"

John shook his head, struggling for words. When he had calmed down a bit, he chuckled out, "You, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, bewildered. His expression only seemed to amuse John more, as the doctor burst into another round of giggles. "Me?" Sherlock asked, confused. "What have I done, besides ruin a cake?"

"You think you've ruined my birthday?" John asked in an amused voice, grinning at Sherlock. The consulting detective just stared at him, looking slightly fearful for his sanity.

"Yes," he said, sitting up to observe John better. "Haven't I?"

John's laughter died down. Sighing, he set the cake on the coffee table, turning to face his deluded friend.

"Sherlock, you tried to make me a cake," he said gently. "Obviously baking isn't your area of expertise, but it doesn't matter. It's the thought that counts; you attempted to do this for me, and that's all that matters to me. I'm simply relieved you didn't completely forget my birthday."

"Never," Sherlock said, scandalized. He frowned at the cake, then up at John, who was watching him with a slightly worried expression. "But I didn't get you anything," he insisted. "All I had was the cake, and it's ruined. Aren't you angry?"

John took in Sherlock's expression, and discovered the detective was completely serious. He really thought he had made John angry with his failed attempt at a cake. Clearly Sherlock didn't have much experience with birthdays.

"No, Sherlock, I'm not," he said gently. He lowered himself onto the couch next to his friend. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously.

"Like I said, you tried," John said with a light smile. "Thank you. It's one of the nicest things anyone's ever done for me."

Sherlock stared at him. "Really?" he asked, hope beginning to tint his words.

"Really," John said firmly.

Sherlock gave him a small smile. Looking back at the cake, he sighed, resting his chin on his fist. "It didn't really cooperate with me," he admitted.

John laughed, feeling better than he had all day. "I can tell," he said, eyes full of mirth. "I'm guessing that smell is coming from the oven?"

Sherlock thought back to the microwave, which was probably still producing an acrid smell. "Possibly," he said vaguely, deciding not to get into it.

"Well," John said, clapping his hands together. He got to his feet. "I'll go grab us some forks, and we can have a bite of this cake, hmm?"

Sherlock looked at him in alarm. "Um, John, are you sure about that? It might be… well, detrimental to your health. It's not the best cake…"

"No," John agreed full-heartedly, "it's not. But it was made for me by my best friend, and I'm going to eat it if I want to. Besides," he said with a smirk, "it's my birthday. You have to do as I say."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the look was ruined by a smile. "Oh, dear," he sighed. "Being forced to eat my own creation. What kind of cruel world is this?"

"A fun one for me!" John exclaimed, starting into the kitchen.

Sherlock chuckled. "Happy birthday, John," he called out.

John smiled over his shoulder. "Thanks, Sherlock," he called back, entering the kitchen.

The smile dropped off of Sherlock's face. "Oh, uh, John? There's something you might want to-"

"Sherlock!" John hollered in the other room, sounding surprised. "What the hell did you do to the microwave?! There's a bloody hole in it!"

Sherlock smiled sheepishly. "I had a row with it?" he asked hopefully.

John stuck his head back into the room, eyes wide. "A row with a machine?" he exclaimed.

"It was being annoying.

"It's a microwave!"

"Cake time!" Sherlock declared, pulling the cake closer to him. "I'm starved!"

* * *

**A/N: I wanted to write some Johnlock fluff, and this came out. Please review and tell me if anyone read this!**


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